


Vostroyan First Born

by Redcoat_Officer



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Astra Militarum - Freeform, Gen, Imperial Guard, Military, Planetary Defence Force, Vostroyan First Born, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24446263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redcoat_Officer/pseuds/Redcoat_Officer
Summary: In the fires of the Horus Heresy, a sin was committed on the world of Vostroya.When the Loyalists called for soldiers to fight for the Imperium, Vostroya refused to send anyone, ostensibly to preserve the integrity of their Manufactorums.Once the fighting had ended and the Imperium began to reassert itself, the people of Vostroya began their penance.Each household on Vostroya, no matter how high their birth may be, offers their first born son to the Guard, to ensure that Vostroya would never again be found wanting.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Vostroyan First Born

I awake amidst biting cold; the weather has turned against us, and now blows the cold southern wind through the open front of our sangar. The wind moans as it twists through the gaps between our sandbags, filled with quick-dry cement, and the ornate stone walls of the old Hotel Imperial. I lie upon a bedframe taken from the hotels upper floors and dragged down to earth. Damp has long since rotted the mattress away, but the springs still serve and I have lashed my roll-mat to them. 

Atop this improvised bed I huddle in my sleeping bag, beneath piled rugs and stolen insulation. There was a time, a lifetime ago, when my kit was kept ready to be packed away at a moment’s notice and I preferred utility to comfort. Back then our mornings began early, before the break of dawn, when we would launch fighting patrols or simply spend watch the sun rise with our lasguns resting atop our packs, ready to beat off the dawn attacks of the Greenskin menace. Now I wake with the light, unless I am called to spend the night on watch. 

I can see Voronov from my bed, an indistinct figure huddled amidst the improvised fortifications that fill the hotel atrium. His scarlet coat and bearskin hat are covered by a cloak the same dusty grey colour as his surroundings. His rifle, its wooden fittings kept pristine, rests against the wall next to crates of ammo for the heavy bolter. The munitions in those crates are worth more to us than gold; ammo is scarce, and anything that cannot be recharged is very hard to keep supplied. 

The bolter is a hungry beast, but it has repaid our offerings many times by spilling the red blood of the green tide. Voronov sits behind this deadly machine, his back to me, looking out across the square that lies before the hotel. Perhaps a hundred meters of open ground lie before us, an expansive view that few on this side of the pocket can afford. The flagstones have been shattered by explosions, and the square is littered with the detritus of war, spent casings from ork guns and the occasional burned out vehicle a permanent reminder that the enemy is near.

Gradually men wake around me, and I join them, preparing to begin the arduous work of survival. Slowly I unzip myself from my sleeping bag and reach out to feel my lasgun, kept warm under a tattered blanket by my side. I swing my feet out from the bed and onto the ground, then begin to unlace my boots. We all sleep with our boots on, so as not to be caught out during the night, and the first ritual of the day is to wash our feet in a pool of water, breaking the ice with our blades, making sure to dry our feet carefully before checking for blisters. 

The next ritual is treated with almost divine reverence; I take up my rifle and begin to disassemble it, placing the pieces atop my bed with all the respect I would show a holy relic. Our lasguns are long-barreled, with fine wooden fittings across the entire length, and each is in some way unique. The weapon I hold is far older than I am and it has known my family for generations. This rifle has served for thousands of years, though every part of it has been replaced by wear a dozen times over that length. The wood panelling is carved with an intricate pattern, the work of my distant ancestor, and after I am gone this rifle will be passed down to the next member of my family to serve in this regiment.

Beyond the reverence I show to this rifle as a member of my family, I also venerate the machine spirit that dwells inside. We Vostroyan’s understand the importance of venerating the machine more so than most other regiments, our world has had ties to the Machine Cult since the days of the Great Crusade. Carefully I remove and polish the focusing lenses, placing each on a pristine white cloth before moving on to the next. With a wire brush I clear the connection points in the magazine housing, before doing the same to the points on my four magazines. Finally, I draw a cloth pull-through down the detached barrel, ensuring no dust or grime can diffuse the beam. With all this done I set myself to revarnishing the wood, and polishing the brass aquila set into the side of the weapon. With those actions I venerate both the weapon’s machine spirit, and the spirits of my ancestors. Only when the double-headed eagle gleams in the morning light do I reassemble my weapon, setting it down reverently atop my bunk. 

I rise, and pull back the top covers to reveal the rest of my uniform. I slept in shirtsleeve order, but kept the rest of my clothes beneath my sleeping bag to warm them overnight. The first piece is a chainmail hauberk worn over my shirt that reaches down to my thighs. It’s metal would be deathly cold against my skin, if it hadn’t been warmed overnight by my own body heat. Next is my red greatcoat, which reaches down to my knees. Once it was a vibrant crimson, but wear has reduced it to the colour of rust. A single inverted chevron on my right cuff denotes five years of service, whilst the crossed lasguns on my left sleeve is my pride and joy, a reminder of weeks spent on the range until I reached the marksman standard. 

My cuirass and pauldrons are too unwieldy to keep beneath my covers, and every day I hope their cold metal surfaces don’t bleed through my other layers. Their polished metal surfaces, the colour of brass, are largely unornamented, save for a single skull beneath my collar and the letter V on my left pauldron, signalling my membership of the 5th Company. Last to go on is my helmet, its ursine fur covering conceals functional armour of the same metal as the rest. On the front of the helmet is a metal cap badge depicting a winged skull, the symbol of all Vostroyan soldiers. 

In the Hotel Imperial thirty-two of my brothers are going through the same ritual, an understrength platoon occupying a building meant to accommodate hundreds of wealthy citizens. Most of our strength is concentrated on the first two floors, with a few solitary marksmen occupying the upper floors some fifty metres up. Our Lieutenant is long dead; rumoured to be a Tetriarch’s son, he was a steadfast and noble leader who fell in our failed withdrawal. 

Sergeant Korolev now holds command and the burden has hit him hard, for he cares deeply about every one of the men under his command and takes on our troubles as his own. I can see him now carrying around an insulated container of hot tea, brewed with leaves from a nearby allotment, which he offers to each man as he passes them. I gladly accept when my turn comes, and the good Sergeant speaks to me for a while, offering some choice sonnets of poetry for my assessment. 

Our regiment has been idle in the pocket for half a year now, and the isolation has driven us slightly mad. Some have turned to drink, brewing alcohol from whatever materials they can find and falling into disrepute, others have become as automata, mindless creatures who move and speak but are not really alive. Most have turned into artisans, with every soldier producing sonnets of literature, fine sketches and watercolours, or composing moving songs upon pilfered instruments. Fine paper and writing materials are now sold by opportunistic locals at the same prices as alcohol, with men trading food or siphoning power from their magazines in exchange for brightly coloured inks or fine canvas.

As he leaves the Sergeant tasks me with collecting the platoon’s spare magazines from headquarters and I take up my rifle without complaint. Duties men may once have shirked were now prized as opportunities to break the tedium that dominated our encirclement. We had come under attack a few night ago by an opportunistic band of Orks, a common enough occurrence across the front, and we had sent our empty magazines back down the line to be recharged. Many men believed the only reason we had survived for so long was because of our lasguns; without an easily replenishable source of ammunition we would long since have fallen due to a lack of supply. Our only contact with the wider Imperium was the occasional PDF aircraft that managed to slip the enemy’s net and deliver us supplies, the navy having departed as soon as they were done unloading us. 

Taking up my lasgun I leave the Hotel Imperial into what was once a housing estate of tiered hab-blocks crisscrossed by labyrinthine walkways. These buildings are held by another platoon, drawn from the remnants of the local PDF. Dark skinned men in faded grey uniforms they could not look more different from the First Born. Unlike us they take an irrational pride in being clean shaven, and their training teaches them to sneak and to hide, to fight defensively, whilst we live by the credo of offensive action. Still, their skills are invaluable. 

Since becoming trapped in the pocket with us they have recruited many of the locals into their ranks, and their knowledge of the city’s secret routes is our only means of reconnaissance. I can see one of their scouts now, a thin woman dressed in a mix of ill-fitting uniform and civilian clothing, she carries a short barrelled autogun and is delivering her report to a local officer, who accepts a small notebook from her before speaking into a field telephone. The PDF soldiers nod to me as I pass and I return the favour. I know they see me and my brothers as a symbol of hope, a sign that the Imperium has not forgotten about them.

The pocket only contains a sliver of the city, and I soon step into the open tundra. Here our men, deprived of the dense urban cityscape, dwell in sangers dug into the ground, some of which are connected by deep fire trenches. I pass a Leman Russ whose sides, twice as tall as myself, lie hidden behind sloping concrete fortifications on three sides, creating a kind of bunker. The crew, dressed in waist length red jackets padded with leather and wearing small forage caps beneath heavy hooded cloaks, greet me as I pass. 

They are drinking from a stove of tea placed atop the engine block of their vehicle, and one of their number is playing a mournful tune on a wooden guitar. I stay for a while, swapping stories and sonnets, trading some cigars from the Hotel Imperial’s smoking room for a block of dark chocolate. These men are from another regiment, but they are still my family. We are all First Born, united in brotherhood in the service of the Throne, and it was our destiny to be here.

Before me rises the great towers of the Kimbatu Fuel Refinery, great fuel silos set amidst an industrial complex of warehouses and offices. Its name is known to everyone her, more so than the city next to it. Six months ago, our regiment was tasked with holding this refinery against the greenskin threat, we were ordered to stay and protect this strategic resource when the defensive line collapsed, ready to be relieved in the counterattack. That grand offensive hasn’t yet arrived, and news about where the lines now lie is a highly prized resource amongst the regiment. To the right of the refinery an eternal flame burns, the result of a lucky Ork rocket that pierced our defences and set one of the pipelines ablaze. A tower of fire now burns thirty meters high, fuelled eternity by the pipeline beneath it.

The ground around this refinery has become a sort of informal meeting place where men gather amidst a small bazaar selling everything from local trinkets to improvised weapons. A constant stream of men passes through this bazaar on their way to the regimental headquarters, located in what was once the main office building for the refinery. On my way through the Bazaar I turn off and into the machine hall of the refinery. Once the chapel for the Mechanicus staff of the refinery, it was generously opened to the regiment by the chief Engineer, and now hosts our two Regimental standards on either side of the altar to the Ommnissiah.

I take a seat on the pews amongst a small group of worshippers and spend a while looking upon our standards. Both are blood red, with one displaying the symbol of our regiment around the number 364, the number of our regiment, and the other displaying the Aquila surrounded by embroidered scrolls that tell our regiments history. Every Vostroyan regiment has an unbroken record of service dating back ten thousand years; where other worlds disband and reforge regiments once their numbers are spent, we bring reinforcements halfway across the galaxy if that is what’s needed. Vostroya failed to act once, now we ensure that will never fail again. 

Our standards are a symbol of hope to the First Born, just as we are a symbol of hope to the PDF. As long as our banners are here then it means the regiment is here. They would only be removed if the Lord General felt we were about to be wiped out. My contemplation done I kneel before the priest to receive the Omnissiah’s blessing, make the symbol of the aquila before the standards, and head back into the bright morning light.

It is a short walk from the Bazaar to Warehouse Three-A, where a steady line of men passes in and out of a small entrance built into the massive hanger doors. Behind these doors a long line of tables divides the visitors from the expansive rows of stores that contain the majority of our food supply and other spare equipment. Brown-robed Departmento Munitorum adepts move throughout the rows of shelving, noting everything they remove on a data slate. 

They divide their time between three separate queues of men, the first being given two days rations for their platoons, the second receiving lasgun magazines recharged using the plant’s own generator whilst the third line, administered by the most petulant adepts, reissue lost or broken kit with a disapproving glare. It is a soulless place, and I thank the Emperor for small mercies when I am out of there within half an hour. 

The trek back is long, and brings me past our improvised airfields, little more than a clear stretch of earth, constructed by the PDF in accordance to the directions of the Departmento Munitorum Engineers attached to the Brigade. The field is surrounded by a web of anti-air emplacements, stretching out across the pocket. Most are fixed lascannon emplacements, connected to the refinery’s power supply, but there are a few tracked hydra cannons reserved for dire situations, their rabid machine spirits being too hungry for ammunition to use regularly. 

A four-engine turboprop plane, in the light grey colours of the Air Defence Force, sits at the end of the runway, warming its engines for take-off. Perhaps a dozen of its kind makes it over the enemy lines each day, carrying food and ammunition for our soldiers. When they leave, they carry with them those wounded whose injuries are too severe for recovery, as well as letters from the Planetary Defence Force. They also carry the lasguns of fallen First Born. We bury our dead in the tundra, but our lasguns do not solely belong to us, rather they belong to all our family, and by sending them back to the army we ensure that some small part of us will live on, and so gain immortality.

The aircraft bring my mind back to spiritual matters, and I turn from the shortest path back onto a longer route through the middle of the tundra, where a company of reserve troops waits to respond to attacks. Nestled amongst a battery of great earthshaker cannons, red-coated gunners sitting on piles of shells around them, I find a familiar bunker constructed from a layer of concrete poured over and into spent shell casings to form a honeycomb of metal bricks. 

This was the home of Captain Rybkin, but it now served a far greater purpose. One day, the captain had been struck by a singular muse, and he had shut himself inside his bunker for an entire day with only a pencil for company. In the golden glow of his metallic walls he laboured over the backside of a local map, caught by some flash of divine inspiration. When he emerged from his bunker a day later, he showed his men what he had been working on, sending shockwaves through the entire brigade. 

When I enter there is already a small group inside; six men, their helmets removed in a sign of respect, stand around a drawing hung on the wall. It depicts the Emperor not armoured for war, but shrouded in robes that flow in gentle layered folds. He holds an infant boy in his comforting hands and the picture itself curves around this child. Every first born sees himself in that son given to the Emperor, and we all wept openly the first time we saw it. It has become the spiritual centre for the entire Brigade, and the name of every fallen soldier in the pocket, whether Guard, PDF or civilian, is engraved upon the metal shell casings that line the walls. 

Captain Rybkin moved to another bunker, and this golden room has been consecrated by a local priest as a Chapel to the God Emperor of Man. If the encirclement is ever broken, if the army manages to rejoin us and drive the Orks from this world, then this chapel and this sketch will forever remain in the care of the Ecclesiarchy, a testament to the First-Born sons of Vostroya who fought and died for the Kimbatu Fuel Refinery.


End file.
